


Harbinger of Death

by Stormsong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Banshee John Watson, Banshees, Clairaudience, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femslash, Hints of johncroft, It might be a thing, Johnlock will happen, Medium Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft and john flirt, Ok more than hints, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Slash, Psychic Mycroft Holmes, Psychometry, Sherlock can talk to spirits, Tags Contain Spoilers, Telesthesia, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:48:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormsong/pseuds/Stormsong
Summary: Every two to three generations a female of the Watson lineage was born with the ability to know when those close to them would die.The Holmes’ had a different ability set, one that didn’t skip generations.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue taken from the episode. I simply added a different flavor to it and a few twists.
> 
> This was never intended to become a multi chapter fic when I began writing. But it took over and grew…

“Come on – who'd want me for a flatmate?” John looked admonishingly at her one time college roommate. “Joining the army did no favors for my nightmares. I can’t imagine you’ve forgotten how bad they were back in college, Mich.”

Michelle Stamford’s smile didn’t waver a bit.

“What?”

Mich’s smile grew wider. “Well, you're the second person to say that to me today.”

John’s eyebrows drew down in one part confusion and one part suspicion. “Who was the first?”

* * *

Something on the mantel caught John’s attention. “That's a skull.” John wasn’t so much concerned that there was an actual human skull on the mantel, but more found its existence curious. It wasn’t exactly normal to find a skull in anyone's home.

Sherlock was far too nonchalant when she said, “Friend of mine.” There was a new hesitancy about the tall slim woman that John thought looked out of place on her. “When I say ‘friend’....” When Sherlock trailed off John got the feeling that there was more than the obvious being left unsaid. Something more than Sherlock implying that she didn’t have friends.

John couldn’t put her finger on it though. Just that there was something about Sherlock’s body language and how the younger woman was avoiding John all of a sudden, looking everywhere but at John.

Mrs. Hudson spoke up from the doorway. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms.” The implication was quite clear in the older woman’s voice.

John raised an eyebrow at the older woman. “Of course we'll be needing two.” Regardless that John found Sherlock attractive they had literally just met yesterday. And, despite the fact that her army mates called her Three Continents Watson for a very good reason…. 

John shook her head trying to clear it of where her thoughts were taking her, because even her own thoughts were trying to imply something that was actually there.

Mrs Hudson clearly wasn’t buying it. “Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones.”

* * *

_ [In the taxi on the way to Brixton, Lauriston Gardens] _

Sherlock barely looked at John when she said, “Okay, you've got questions.”

Of course John had questions. Who wouldn’t after watching that little odd scene with the woman who had burst into the flat as she had. “Yeah, where are we going?”

Sherlock waved the question aside as if it wasn’t worth her time. And then answered the question anyways. “Crime scene. Next?”

“Who are you? What do you do?” John asked.

Sherlock finally turned her head towards John. “What do you think?” 

It was like John had finally done something worth the other woman’s interest. John wasn’t even sure if that made her feel insulted or not. Mostly because the longer she was around Sherlock the more John wanted to be in her presence and have the odd woman’s interest.

John thought everything that had happened till now from their initial meeting. “I'd say private detective….”

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

...but the police don't go to private detectives.”

Sherlock replied, “I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“The police don't consult amateurs.” It wasn’t so much an objection to Sherlock’s statement, but more of an observation of John’s own. Nothing about Sherlock made John think that the younger woman had enough experience to be a consultant on anything. Not that Sherlock looked  _ that _ young either, of course. Sherlock couldn’t have been more than a handful of years younger than John.

Sherlock replied, “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised.”

“Yes, how did you know?” After all, Michelle had denied having told Sherlock anything beforehand, and John had believed her.

“I didn't know. I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room…”

John recalled the words she had spoken. “Bit different from my day.”

“...said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John felt the need to point out, “You said I had a therapist.”

“You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother.”

“Hmm?”

Sherlock held John’s mobile up. How the woman had gotten her hands on it was beyond John, who could not find it in herself to be mad at all. “Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then.” Sherlock turned the mobile about. “Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving.”

Sherlock turned the mobile over to look at the back even though it was clear that she knew  _ and _ remembered what was engraved there. “Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock’s lips turned up at the edges in the barest of smiles. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone. Never see a drunk's without them.”

Sherlock handed the mobile back to John. Even in the dimness John could see the other woman’s pride clearly. “There you go, you see, you were right.”

“I was right? Right about what?” In the daze of listening to Sherlock break every detail down John had forgotten the original thread of the conversation. 

“The police don't consult amateurs.”

“That... was amazing.” It truly was. The woman sitting beside John was breathtaking in her genius.

Sherlock suddenly turned shy. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” How could a woman who could see all that about John could not see herself?

As if to answer John’s unvoiced question she said, “That's not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” John didn’t think she was going to like the answer but asked anyways.

“Piss off!” Sherlock grinned and something inside of John bubbled up in her chest and made her giggle at the amazing and brilliant woman beside her.

* * *

The Watsons had a family secret. Okay, more like a clan secret. So, it wasn’t much of a secret, because it was passed from matron Watson to daughter, niece, or granddaughter or grandniece. This did not mean that the Watson men didn’t know the secret, simply that the secret did not concern the men in the Watson clan.

Just because it was passed down didn’t mean anyone wanted to spread it around.

Not that anyone would believe it if they were told. Not in this modern day and age anyways. No one believed in harbingers of death anymore. 

Except for the women of the Watson clan. As far as the women of the Watson clan could figure they were how the myths originated in the first place. Every two to three generations a female of the Watson lineage was born with the ability to know when those close to them would die. 

That sort of knowledge was enough to make any woman scream.

Everyone was sure that it was going to be John’s older sister that was going to be the one with the ability, she was the eldest daughter after all. Everyone just assumed….

When John woke one night screaming after dreaming of the death of one of her close friends from school she understood why Harry stole their parents alcohol. 

John had only told her sister about the dream in hopes of getting Harry to stop drinking. John hated what it was doing to her sister. They might not get on well, but she still cared about and loved her older sister. If John was the banshee then Harry didn’t need to drink herself into oblivion. Right?

John had been wrong.

Harry had never come out and said it, but when she looked down at her younger sister with so much pity John knew. Knew that Harry had already had at least one dream where she watched someone close to her die. She had, somehow, managed to keep it a secret.

To this day John still didn’t know who Harry had dreamed about dying; if the ability to know when those close to you would die was what drove Harry to drink, or if it was the death of the person that Harry dreamed about was the cause of alcoholism.

John was sure that she didn’t want to know the answer badly enough.

* * *

[ _ Walking towards the police tape. _ ]

Sherlock asked, “Did I get anything wrong?”

John replied “Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.”

“Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.”

John remarked offhandedly, “And Harry's short for Harriet. Though I suppose considering what they named me our parents were hoping for boys. Even our parents never called her Harriet or me Johanna.”

John had walked a few paces before she realized that Sherlock was no longer beside her. She turned to find Sherlock staring at her with a blank expression. John found it a bit unnerving.

“What’s the matter?”

Sherlock blinked, something about her changed, she smiled at John, and marched forward towards the police tape with a firm, “Let’s go, John,” that would have done any officer in the Army proud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter but it is what it is.
> 
> Again dialogue, for the most part, comes from the episode.

Sherlock stood over Jennifer Wilson’s body. The consulting detective had already read from Wilson’s body what she needed to make her deductions. Now she was checking the weather on her phone.

DI Lestrade, perhaps feeling as if it was safe enough to talk, asked, “Got anything?”

“Not much,” Sherlock replied honestly. Wilson clearly decided that since she had left her message that she didn’t need to stick around until her murder was solved. 

For the first time Sherlock wished a spirit had stayed after being murdered. Most of the time the spirits of murder victims were barely more helpful than the corpses they left behind. Mostly spirits were as tedious in death as they were in life, but at least they were more helpful than _Anderson_.

Anderson chose that moment to add his worthless opinion with, “She's German. _Rache_ , it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something….”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock said dryly.

“So she's German?” Lestrade asked, clearly prodding for information.

Sherlock made a face. “Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night... before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”

Or not.

John’s brows furrowed. “Sorry – obvious?”

Sherlock shouldn’t have felt so...disappointed. Absalon had said…. And John had said…. 

Sherlock mentally waved the thoughts aside. She had more important things to think about. Like catching a serial killer.

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock ignored the DI and turned to John. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

John still looked confused. Ah. She was unsure why she was being addressed despite her eagerness to come with Sherlock to the crime scene. Which was just silly! This was the reason Sherlock asked John to come with her to the crime scene - for her medical opinion!

Which John clearly didn’t grasp and was evident when she asked, “Of the message?”

Sherlock told herself to have patience. That this _had to be_ the woman Absalon had referred to, the one that was essential to Sherlock’s own future. “Of the body. You're a medical woman.”

John turned to DI Lestrade seeking the older woman’s permission.

Lestrade waved her hand towards the body on the floor in a manner that anyone could read as defeat and tired exasperation. Her tone was an auditory mirror of the gesture when she said to John, “Oh, do as she says. Help yourself.” Then to Anderson Lestrade told, “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.” 

Anderson sneared, but left to do as instructed.

Sherlock raised an expectant brow at John. “Well?”

John stepped over to Sherlock. Quietly she asked the consulting detective, “What am I doing here?”

Sherlock told the shorter woman, “Helping me make a point,” in complete honesty. 

John stared into her eyes, searching. Searching for what Sherlock wasn’t sure. Sincerity perhaps? Why wouldn’t Sherlock be sincere in her request for the shorter woman’s help? If it was anyone else Sherlock wouldn’t never had made the request. John Watson on the other hand? Yes. There was something about the woman that drew Sherlock to her. Something more than the potential of Absalon’s predictive message. The consulting detective just couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She needed more data.

Whatever John saw in Sherlock’s eyes must have satisfied her because John gave her a small nod before stepping over to the corpse and awkwardly getting down to her knees beside it.

Ah, yes, the psychosomatic limp. Sherlock was going to have to do something about that if John was going to stick around. And Sherlock very much wanted her to stick around. More than for what the future _might_ bring. Though that was part of it too….

Sherlock had learned early on that Absalon Holmes might have been dead, but it hadn’t diminished the man’s ability to predict the future; his death had simply made it harder for his predictions to be clear.

As a child Sherlock had thought that Absalon’s words mere nonsense. ...but if she had listened maybe she could have prevented Victor Trevor from dying…. Sherlock had promised herself that she would _never_ make the mistake of ignoring Absalon’s words _ever_ again. 

It was unfortunate that her ancestor had for some unknown reason decided to attach himself to a skull. Not that appearing to talk to thin air had ever done Sherlock any favors for her reputation either. Not that Sherlock cared much about her reputation, of course, not as long as she was allowed to solve interesting cases.

None of which mattered at the moment. Sherlock had a pink case to find and a serial killer to catch. It truly was Christmas!

It wasn’t until Sherlock fished the bright pink suitcase out of the skip and went to turn to John with a triumphant grin that she realized that she left the ex-Army doctor back at the crime scene. How inconvenient that psychosomatic limp was proving to be. Sherlock _had_ to do something about it sooner rather than later.

With a sigh Sherlock hauled the hideous case towards the main road to hail a cab back to Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's pov. And the conversation goes a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthea is Andino in this fic.

Mycroft was at her desk going over everything that could be found on one Johanna Hamish Watson when her telesthesia showed her what Sherlock was to. The view of Sherlock was only in her mind’s eye so the civil servant had no trouble continuing with her work. Multitasking was like breathing for Mycroft.

Even so, Mycroft was forced to pause a moment when she saw what her little sister was up to. _...digging through skips?_ Mycroft sighed. She knew her Sherlock was finally working on that dreadful serial killer case. The one that made it look like the victims were committing suicides. Clever that. Clever, but dreadful.

So whatever Sherlock was looking for in skips must have to do with her case. Mycroft allowed herself to sigh, once more - after all, she _was_ in the privacy of her office - and hoped Sherlock took a shower after, or at least washed her hands. But that hope might have been a lost cause considering that Mycroft knew her sister had such appalling notions about taking care of her “transport” during a case.

There was nothing Mycroft could do about how Sherlock treated her own body, nothing beyond getting Sherlock the best specialist and treatment when Sherlock - 

Mycroft refused to think along those lines a second more.

Thankfully, her attention was diverted to her computer screen where Mycroft saw live CCTV footage of Johanna “John” Watson leaving the house where the most recent serial “suicide” had been found.

With Sherlock elsewhere digging through skips, Mycroft grimaced at the thought, it was the opportune moment to have a private conversation with the former Army doctor.

Mycroft sent a message to Andino to go pick up Sherlock’s prospective new flatmate, and another for a driver for herself.

* * *

Mycroft sat comfortably against the leather seats of the luxury sedan as she watched the CCTV footage on the laptop resting on her lap. On her mobile phone she rang phone after phone along the side of the street Johanna Watson was limping along.

By the third phone that Mycroft called Johanna seemed to finally catch on. Mycroft watched as she turned part way towards one of the shops. Someone that was not Johanna attempted to answer the phone and Mycroft hung up, only to ring the payphone a few feet in front of Johanna. The phone Mycroft had already calculated that Johanna would answer.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

“ _Who's this? Who's speaking?_ ”

Mycroft ignored Watson’s questions. “Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

“ _Yeah, I see it._ ”

Mycroft instructed Watson to: “Watch.” She moved the camera as far as it would go in the other direction. Then, she said, “There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

“ _Mmm-hmm._ ”

Mycroft directed the camera to turn away before saying, “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

The civil servant didn’t wait for a response and simply turned the camera the other direction. Now none of the cameras at that location had Watson in their sights.

“ _How are you doing this?_ ”

Mycroft ignored that question as well. “Get into the car, Doctor Watson,” she instructed. When Watson hesitated she told her, “I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

With Watson on her way it was now time to finish setting the stage.

Mycroft pocketed her phone, put her laptop away, double checked that she had one last prop, and left the car. She eyed the large empty space. Yes, it would do nicely. Except it needed one more detail.

The civil servant ordered her driver to search a nearby office for a chair. When it was brought forward Mycroft instructed its placement. 

With everything finally set Mycroft leaned casually on her umbrella and waited.

Not long, of course. Mycroft had timed everything just so.

Watson’s stride, like much of the rest of her, contradicted itself. She did not so much as limp over to where Mycroft stood, but marched over while putting weight on the cane. If Mycroft had not had someone procure Watson’s therapist's notes - not that she needed the notes to tell her so - or any other part of the file on Watson Mycroft could read all of the information from the former army doctor herself. From the psychosomatic limp to the untrimmed pixie haircut to the years out of date clothing the woman wore.

It was a clear as crystal to Mycroft that the shorter woman had spent a number of years in the Army, had been discharged though not because of the limp (psychosomatic or otherwise), was a tidy person by nature, was low on funds, and was clearly not afraid of the situation she had found herself in. Most interesting of all was the fact that although Watson was clearly an adrenaline junkie and ex-soldier she draped herself in drab apparel. Just what kind of facade was Watson trying to present with her ill fitting overly large lumpy jumper and utilitarian shoes? 

Paired with the black military-esque jacket Johanna Watson made quite the puzzle.

A puzzle Mycroft thought she wouldn’t mind deciphering.

“Have a seat, Johanna,” Mycroft gestured to the chair when the other woman got closer.

“You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but...er...you could just phone me. On my phone.”

Mycroft smiled, one reserved for bureaucrats, ambassadors, and heads of governments, and replied, “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” When Johanna still had not taken the seat Mycroft said, in a lightly provoking manner, “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don't wanna sit down.” The tone had its own subtle taunt in it. Especially when she said, “And it’s John. _Not_ Johanna.”

Mycroft felt something inside of herself become lighter. Her smile became a little more real. Only a touch. “You don't seem very afraid.”

Something flickered across John’s face before Mycroft could read it; then it settled into...ah...fearlessness. A soldier’s face. “You don't seem very frightening,” John told the civil servant.

“I suppose not, compared to bullets,” Mycroft acknowledged. She was about to say more when she saw with her telesthesia that Sherlock was back at Baker Street. Mycroft’s time alone with John was running out.

“Why am I here?” John asked.

“To the heart of the matter, then. I’m concerned about Sherlock and you, my dear, are in the perfect position.” 

“But who’re you?”

“As I said, a concerned party.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” John said dryly and a roll of her eyes. “What do you want of me, and why should I give it to you?”

“What does anyone want? Information.”

A high trill came from John’s pocket. 

Mycroft saw Sherlock in her mind’s eye. She was texting. Mycroft did not need to see the text to know it was to John.

John took the phone out, checked it, and put it back in her pocket unanswered. 

“Am I boring you?” Mycroft asked.

“Not yet,” John replied. When she looked up at Mycroft again the civil servant could see that the soldier’s mask was down. There was a twinkle in those blue eyes that had not been there a moment before. Nor had there been that little turn up at one corner of John’s mouth. “I would really like to know who you are. You’ve not said yet.”

“Would it make a difference if I did?”

John’s phone trilled again. This time, however, John did not check the text. It would be Sherlock, of course.

“It might,” John told her.

“I would prefer this stays between us,” Mycroft implored. “Sherlock and I used to be close,” she grimaced a the memory of how things used to be oh so long ago. “Sadly, not anymore. Sherlock might take it badly….” Mycroft purposefully trailed off.

John made a face. “I rather not get between the likes of that.”

Mycroft’s face fell. She couldn’t help it. She felt like she was losing control of the situation. She had originally planned to offer John money, but Mycroft had decided against it when it became obvious to her that it would be an insult to the proud soldier. 

John leaned forward, just a bit. “That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t still have a name from you.” And then John winked. “Then, just maybe, there could be something between us, and if I occasionally bring up my brilliant but daft flatmate...well...then that would be no one else’s business, would it?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched back upwards. “Oh, my dear, you are a surprise.” She leaned forward and whispered in John’s ear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives back at 221b and texts a murderer....

When John reached the flat she saw Sherlock lying on the couch, hands together with her fingers almost touching her lips. It was an odd pose. Not that anything about Sherlock had yet to be what anyone could call  _ normal _ . Not that that bothered John. It was different, and so far that was mostly a good thing.

But this was far from what she expected to find, not after the text she had received.

_ Could be dangerous. _

_ SH _

John said dryly, “You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important.”

Sherlock opened her eyes and looked at John. “Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John asked in surprise.

Sherlock replied, “Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It's on the website.”

John suggested, “Mrs Hudson's got a phone.”

To which Sherlock countered with, “Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear.”

John huffed a sigh. “I was the other side of London.”

Sherlock raised one elegant brow. “There was no hurry.”

John rolled her eyes.  _ Of course not. That’s why you texted ‘come at once.’ You’re about as dramatic as the woman that kidnapped me. _ Whatever. John took out her phone and handed it to Sherlock. “Here.”

After Sherlock took the phone she held onto it, but went back to the pose she had been in a moment before.

John asked, “So what's this about – the case?”

“Her case.”

“Her case?” John asked still a little confused about it all.

“Her suitcase,” Sherlock clarified and confirmed, “yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

“Okay, he took her case. How is that going to lead you to him?”

Instead of answering John the consulting detective muttered to herself, “It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it.” Abruptly Sherlock thrust her arm out, John’s phone in hand. “On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text.”

Really?! “You brought me here... to send a text.” Despite her shock John took her phone back.

“Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

John fiddled with the phone, but didn’t move towards the desk. She couldn’t stop thinking that she had stopped at the bedsit to get her gun just to arrive back at Baker Street to send a text for a woman who was too lazy to do it herself. Why was John pandering to this beautiful git?

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked from her position on the couch.

John debated with herself on how to answer the other woman. In the end she said, “Just met a friend of yours.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. “A friend?”

“Yes.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that I had any friends.”

_ Huh. That made sense. _ So far Sherlock had used the term friend for a skull and a Yarder that she clearly wasn’t on friendly terms with.

“Well, she said you had been close once.” Could they have been something else to each other instead? “Actually she reminded me of you a bit. Posh and dramatic.”

Sherlock gave a very inelegant snort. “Did she kidnap you and off you money?”

“Kidnap, yes. Money? No. It never came up.”

Of all things  _ that _ was what got Sherlock off her back and sitting up right. “She didn’t ask you to spy on me? Astonishing.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Not that I would do such a thing.”

Sherlock stared at John. “No, I don’t suppose you would.” After a brief moment, she added, “A word of advice: she is the most dangerous woman you have ever met, be careful around her.”

After the set up with the ringing phones, CCTV's, and the general kidnapping scenario John supposed that Mycroft really was dangerous. However, John still couldn’t find it in herself to find anything frightening about the mysterious woman.

Sherlock clapped her hands together once and brought the attention back to herself. “That’s not the important matter at hand. On my desk, the number. You need to send a text.”

John went to the desk and was startled at what she saw there. “Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. That’s the dead woman.”

“Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number,” Sherlock instructed. Then, impatiently asked, or rather demanded, “Are you doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you done it?”

“Ye... hang on!” John wasn’t exactly fast at texting, never mind typing.

“These words exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’” Sherlock then commanded, “Type and send it. Quickly.”

_ God, this woman had no patience. _

“Have you sent it?”

No, John didn’t say.

Instead she asked, “What's the address?”

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!” Sherlock demanded yet once more; this time as she got up off the couch and strode off passed John. 

When Sherlock came back John had just sent the text and looked up. And watched as Sherlock set down a very bright pink case. The same color she had seen on a corpse not an hour ago. The consulting detective plopped the case on a kitchen chair and herself in an armchair.

“That's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes, “Yes, obviously.” Then, in an offhand manner, “Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her.”

“I never said you did.”

Sherlock faced John. “Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption.”

John felt the need to ask, “Do people usually assume you're the murderer?”

Sherlock made a face, but said in an unconcerned tone, “Now and then, yes.”

“How did you get this?” John gestured to the pink case.

“By looking,” Sherlock replied as if it was obvious. John supposed that it was.

“Where?” she asked.

Sherlock shifted to the edge of her seat and leaned forward towards John. Rapidly she explained, “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens…” Sherlock paused for breath, or maybe just dramatic effect. “...and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed.” Sherlock leaned back and said, “Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

John was dazed by Sherlock’s brilliants. “Pink. You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?”

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously.”

“Amazing,” John breathed.

Sherlock blushed scarlet. It was beautiful.

Sherlock deflected attention to the pink case. She gestured to it and said, “Now, look. Do you see what's missing?”

John replied honestly. “No, can’t say that I do.” She really didn’t want to go through a dead woman’s things. She wasn’t squeamish or anything. Couldn’t be as a surgeon or a soldier. It was just...nope.

Sherlock was on the edge of her seat again. “Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it.”

“Maybe she left it at home,” John suggested. She didn’t actually believe her own words, but it was still a possibility.

Sherlock scoffed. “She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.”

A thought occurred to John. “You think the murderer has the phone? That’s who I sent the text to?”

Sherlock didn't reply to John exactly. She was more talking aloud to herself and directing her towards John. “Maybe she... left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…”

The phone in John’s hand rang, drawing both of their gazes.

“...would panic,” Sherlock finished.

A sudden thought struck John. “Have you talked to the police?”

Sherlock waved the concern away. “Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police.”

“So why are you talking to me?” John really wanted to know.

Sherlock pouted. “Mrs Hudson took my skull.” The tall woman actually seemed put out by that.

John raised a brow. “So I'm basically filling in for your skull?”

There must have been something in John’s tone because Sherlock smiled reassuringly. “Relax, you're doing fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squeeee! Next chapter there will be Johnlock flirting!
> 
> Also! we will be canon divergent after A Study in Pink. Then we'll get canon divergent for realzies! and truly see banshee and medium/psychic stuff


End file.
